I Learned From You
by comicfan209
Summary: In his life, Deuce has been taught many things. But none could be more important than the life lessons taught to him by his own dad. Father's Day one-shot.


Hey! I'm back again with another holiday fic, just like I promised.

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_Dedicated to my father, Richard, for always finding a way to cheer me up; as well as in loving memory to both my late grandfathers, Roger and Samuel. Both of you will be missed dearly, as well as a shout-out to all monster daddies out there._

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_I learned from you that I do not crumble  
I learned that strength is something you choose  
All of the reasons to keep on believin',  
There's no question, that's a lesson I learned from you_

-Miley and Billy Ray Cyrus, "I Learned From You"

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You know that one quote where they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder?

When I was little, I couldn't understand that phrase. At the time, I used to think it was total crap. After all, you hear the teachers and the adults and all those campaigners preach about equality and that people are fine the way they are, but the second it doesn't apply to their standards, they're quick to drop the act and start throwing the stones.

Like my mom, for example.

Everyone knows the story. Or at least, they think they do. Medusa, the harlot turned hideous beast after Athena caught her trying to seduce Poseidon in her temple. The woman was said to be more beautiful than Aphrodite, to monster who later spent her time turning people to stone before Perseus chopped her head off. Everyone's heard the story time and time again. Everyone thinks they've heard it all before after what was, supposedly, written down.

What people don't know is that my mother is a broken woman. That she was the victim of a brutal rape, someone who was forced upon by the sea God himself all because he couldn't take no for an answer. That even to this day, some two-thousand years later, she still has nightmares about the whole ordeal. But does Poseidon get his just desserts? Hell no. When Athena walks in on the two of them, does she take out on him? No sir.

You see, even back then in Ancient Greece, when nobody could keep it in the pants, there was slut-shaming. My mother was a beautiful woman, the only one of her sisters who didn't mind death-being the only mortal of them-and was utterly and completely devoted to Athena, willing to sacrifice her body to appease her goddess. And in the end, the same goddess she trusted with her life ended up cursing her. It wasn't just her either. When my aunts heard of what happened, they did what any sister would do and stood up for her, and from what you've heard, you can pretty much guess Athena didn't tolerate defiance.

Because, let's be honest, do you really think anyone's going to stick around a woman who has snakes for her, her entire body covered in scales, yellow snake eyes, fangs, and bronze claws? So pretty much when word got out, everyone joined the bandwagon. My mother went from having men at her feet constantly to having people running away from her.

On the contrary to what the textbooks tell you, my mother never went out on a rampage and purposefully turned people to stone. After what happened, she went into hiding with my aunts. Whoever her "victims" were idiots who challenged each other to dares to see if they could conquer over her. They all failed horrendously, of course. And as the story seems to tell, Perseus comes along to save his mother from a marriage, comes to Medusa, chops off her head, everything's fine. The spoiled brat gets all the glory and my mother, the rape victim who had done nothing wrong, gets to have her head as a trophy and unknowingly give birth to her two children from Poseidon.

And contrary to what the historians believe, my mother was saved- obviously, or I wouldn't be here. My aunts Stheno and Euryale came along, stole back my mother's severed head from Perseus, and basically fused it back to her body using the blood from their right arms. And that's pretty much where the mythology ends.

For the next thousand years or so, my mother lived in silence. She trusted nobody; hell, she barely trusted her own sisters, but could you blame her? She lost her chastity, her humanity, and her dignity. The least she could have was some peace and quiet. As time went on and monsters started to finally come out from under the rock, she got a little better. She befriended Arachne and Lamia and started to go out more. Started to breathe and take her life back.

Then my Aunt Euryale convinced my mom to go Athens, explore the city. Well, 'convinced' is more along the lines of 'dragging my mom out the house and forcing her to board a train.'

Anyway.

My mom had been pretty disconnected with her roots. Greece really meant nothing to her anymore. Don't get me wrong, my mom is pure Greek when it comes to every tradition out there, but the city was one part she refused to do. She told me that it had brought nothing but shame and bad memories for her. But, after some constant whining and demanding from my aunts, she decided to go.

She says it was one of the best decisions she ever made.

Because there was where she met my father.

A lot of people wonder who my dad is. Because, seriously, who would have a kid with _Medusa_? (Heath made that joke once, but he quickly learned I don't appreciate jokes about my old man after I nearly kicked his ass.)

Some kids asked me if I was somehow a third child of Poseidon from my mother, though they quickly realized it wouldn't make sense that, you know, my brothers are thousands of years old and I'm only middle aged. Some actually asked me if Perseus was my dad. Get real. Seriously, what type of logic draws you to _that_ conclusion?

When I first asked my mom about him, she'd tell me he was where she actually began to live again. I didn't understand her at first. Now I do.

His name was Thaddeus. They met one night when he was out on a walk. My mom was on a bench, overlooking a fountain in the park. She was having a bad night, as what was supposed to be of sight-seeing turned into a day of having glances, glares, pointed fingers, names, and degrading photographs aimed at her. Well, on this particular day, it simply became too much for my mother, and she sat down near the bench, crying and just trying to let her frustrations out.

Well, according to her, a voice suddenly came from behind and asked her if he could sit down. At first, my mom was pretty hostile. Besides other monsters, nobody came close to her with a ten-foot pole. When she actually saw him, though she was still a bit hesitant, she scooted over and let him next to her.

Unlike the typical Greek males who'd sport olive skin, long wispy dark hair, some facial hair, and piercing eyes, my father looked-according to my mother- more German, or American. With a fair Caucasian complexion, short brown hair that was only slightly long enough for some styling, and pale green eyes, either way, he looked like a typical normie. Which was what made my mom hesitant.

However, as soon as she saw his eyes, as she tells me now, she knew that he wasn't like the others.

He was also blind. The details of how are still a bit sketchy to me, but from what I can remember, he had told us he got stuff in his eyes when he was two that damaged his sight.

A few seconds after he sat down, he had asked my mother what was bothering her, and said he could smell her tears when she asked him how he knew (ironic how snakelike blind people are, no?). My mother did not automatically open up to him, of course. Even if he couldn't see her. Though they began small talk at first, my mother revealed who she was. To her surprise, he didn't change his attitude towards her. He didn't freak out and try to run away, he didn't become disgusted and try to beat her with his cane; he didn't even frown or show any emotion that she made him uncomfortable.

I think that's what made my mom trust the world again. They talked for a few hours, and then talking turned to exchanging phone numbers. Phone numbers turned to going out, going out turned to dates, a date turned into moving in, and moving in turned into marriage.

I was the only product of their marriage, born precisely a year and two months after their wedding. And to my father, I and Mom were the greatest things to ever happen to him. He'd tell me that when I came along, it was the happiest he'd ever seen my mother. That she had more of a melody in her voice than when they first met. Don't get me wrong, I know my mom loves my brothers even though she hates how they were conceived. And she did try to have a relationship with them, but with Pegasus working for the damned gods and Chrysaor doing….whatever he does, the three of them just couldn't get the relationship that my mother hoped for.

My father was always a pacifist. He saw the good in everybody, and was never one to hold a grudge. He'd get angry, sure, but he'd always tell me he found it too tiring to always try and find a reason to stay mad at someone. A philosophy which he'd always try to pass on to me. He taught me manners, to learn to appreciate the things I had in life, and to never give up. Looking back on it, I knew there were times where I was a difficult little shit, but seeing his smile, I know he never stopped being proud of me. Our eyes never met, and he was almost always looking in the same direction, but every time he looked down at me, his eyes unseeing, I could see the love and good nature in his eyes. And I loved my father for that.

Of course, things don't always come without consequence.

As a child, I was confused about exactly _what_ I was. Even today, it's a pretty simple concept: If it looks like a monster, talks like a monster, and acts like a monster, then it must be a monster. Early on, from how my Aunt Stheno would act, I could see the contempt monsters held for normies. When I was two, I overheard a conversation over the phone between my dad and my paternal grandmother- who, to this day, I have not met, along with the rest of his family- and it was made pretty clear to me that normies thought of monsters as the scum of the Earth.

So where did I fit in?

I had snakes for hair and snake eyes and scales on my arms, so was I a monster? But since my dad was a normie, was I one too, only slightly different? Did I even have a place in this world? How could I possibly fit into either category that were total opposites? Two different species that only saw the worse in each other?

It spawned so many questions that, when you're a kid, you get overwhelmed just at the complexity of it. I finally had enough of not knowing at one point, and ran to my father, tears running down my face and my hands grabbing onto his leg for dear life, asking him where I fit into. I just wanted to know where I fit into. What I was. Was I a normie or a monster? My father bent down to my level, put his hands on my shoulders, and simply asked:

"Well, Deuce, who do _you _want to be?"

Who. Not what. Not like I was an object or animal. At first, I didn't understand that question. I was still at that age where I thought adults held all the questions to life? But my father sat down next to me and asked me the same question. Where did I feel like I belonged? When I was older and looked back on it, I was never more grateful for my dad. He taught me so many things. That your life is what you make of it, and in the end, how you're affected all depends on how you want to be affected.

Of course, there are also times where you have grow up and see the world for what it really was.

I was always curious about my father's family. I had already met my aunts from my mother's side and my cousins, but what about him? Judging from how tense he and my mother got whenever I brought the question up, I knew it didn't seem like such a happy subject. I had an idea, but I never really understood how bad it had been until my mom showed me a letter his sister wrote him right before he and my mom's wedding. And let me tell you, it was harsh. My grandparents, as well as my uncles and aunt, were absolutely disgusted that he became engaged to the "demonic whore" and to not expect them to ever address him as family if he went through with it. The last time my father ever had contact with them was sending them a letter telling of my birth.

When you're a kid, you really don't understand the reason behind conflicts and enemies. To me, I couldn't understand why monsters and normies put in so much effort as to why they stayed away from each other. Sure, we were different in skin color and limbs and all that, but in the end, didn't we all bleed the same blood? Didn't we all feel the same emotions as each other, didn't we all die eventually?

My father didn't try to sugarcoat. He sat me down and told me the truth as honestly as he could without be too graphic. He had told me that sometimes, some are just too blinded by their own prejudice to see from the other shoe. And that sometimes, people let their grief and grudges take over and block their ears to reason. I asked him why, why did they keep all that anger if it was tiring to keep getting angry like he said? My father shrugged his shoulders and told me that some people just refuse to be reasonable, and they let their anger and hate destroy them in the end.

How true of a statement that was.

I remember the day as clearly as rainwater. I was six years old, and it was early July. My cousin Alyson and I were out in the backyard, roughhousing and getting each other dirty and debating on whether it was cooler to be a boy or a girl. That was when I heard my mother cry from the kitchen. Forgetting our toys, Alyson and I walked in to find my mom at the dining room table with my aunts gathered around her, trying to offer soothing words of comfort and their expressions grave. My mother had her face buried in her hands, her shoulders moving up and down her and her snakes looking sad. When I asked her what was wrong, they all looked up, and my mother's eyes showed absolute heartbreak, tears flowing down like broken pipes.

That was probably the worst day of my life.

As it turns out, if they hadn't made it clear from the beginning, a few of my father's co-workers weren't exactly peachy with the idea he was married and had had a kid with a lady who had snakes for hair. Well, that day they had decided that if he wasn't going to listen, they were going to have to teach him a lesson.

And by teaching him a lesson, I mean they followed him as he was living and beat him to the point he could hardly get up. When they realized they may have gone a _little_ too far, they put him in the bed of a pickup truck, drove to the hospital, dumped him out on the curb and whistled for nurses nearby. But by that time, it was too late. He died an hour later.

At first, I was very confused. All she had told me was that he had gotten into an accident and some very bad men hurt him. When we're children, our understanding of death can be very abstract. And when you finally do understand just how painful it is, see how much it can change your life, you don't want to accept it. You want to pretend they're somewhere and you won't be able to see them. That they're secret agents or they're just in a really deep sleep. But alas, life doesn't work that way, and there's only so many times you can keep repeating the same thing to yourself before you just have to face the music and see that death is very real, and that the world is very much an unfriendly and sinister place to live.

The last time I ever saw my father was at his wake. You can't imagine how much it can fuck up a kid when they see a member of their family laying in a casket, unmoving and as pale as skeleton bones.

I was angry. Angry at the men who did it, and especially pissed at the normies. Was it really so hard to believe we weren't those barbaric creatures they put in nursery rhymes and fairy tales? Were we really so inhuman in their eyes that we didn't deserve happiness? There was nothing more I wanted to do than go out and let the normies know exactly how they felt. My dad was the first person to ever call my mom beautiful, and he was the first person she ever showed real love. And now he was gone. Dead and gone, his body long since buried and left to rot in the cold, hard Earth.

But the angrier I got, the more exhausted I felt. My dad's words came to my mind, and that point, I truly understood what he meant. It's a pain to try and stay angry at somebody, to try and get them to realize time after time that things aren't always different from the other side. Plus, it wouldn't be fair to my father. He was a normie, and he wasn't like the others, was he? Just like how not all of us monsters are the bloodthirsty night stalkers people will make us out to be.

I still miss my dad. Sometimes I still wish that the whole thing was a dream, and that he'll come walking through the door, all better, and we can be a family again. But sadly, this is real life, and it's not always fair to people. The only thing you can do is to keep moving forward and learn how to make your life different. So the only thing I can do is heed all my father taught me, and use to make myself a better person and to make it through the life the best I can.

One of the things my father had taught me was that sometimes, things are not always the way they seem. That one person may see something different the others. He told me a story of, when he was younger, because of his blindness everyone would think he couldn't do anything by himself.

"You see, Deuce," he'd tell me as we sat on the couch, a blanket thrown over us, "Some people will act a certain way that will make others upset, and we're sometimes quick to judge them. We're quick to assume that we know everything about their life. But you know, you gotta dig deeper. People are going to treat you badly, make you mad, and seem to have no sense of respect whatsoever. But before you get mad, put yourself in their shoes, and you may be surprised of just how alike you are to them."

When I came to Monster High, that philosophy stuck right on through. It's really why it was so hard to leave when I graduated. It wasn't like a regular high school where they preach about bullying and make a few posters to pass off as crappy PSAs, there they actually tried to spread the message we're all fine the way we are. Because there's a reason we all think the way we think, and that reason is why we shouldn't change it for world.

I think that's why Cleo and I work so well together. Don't get me wrong, there are times she can be a bitch and a big pain in the ass, and there are times where I know I'm being a dick or a complete ass to her. And to a lot of people that may make our sanity questionable, but that's exactly it. We balance each other out. We're not afraid to call each other out on it, and we're not afraid to be ourselves to each other. We're a lot like that couple from _The Notebook_. When I started going out with Cleo, I heard the rumors that she was going to drop me like last year's newspaper, and a lot of the guys on the casketball team told me I was in over my head. But they didn't see past the Regina George Cleo. They didn't see the girl who has the weight of the world on her shoulders, who had an overbearing father and was living in her sister's shadow, who had never known her father and was bossy to all her friends as a defense mechanism so she won't be treated the same way. Plus, my mother loved her, so that was a plus.

Was I pissed off when Cleo broke up with me that one Halloween? Hell yes. But the more I looked at it from her point of view, I could understand where she was coming from. That's not saying she wasn't at fault, but I had to respect her at a certain level for what she sacrificed. I know from personal experience that I've done a few things I've regretted for the sole purpose of pleasing my mother. Plus, my dad had always said that relationships were easy, and that sometimes, you had to reach your lowest point before you could see how to fix it.

Our relationship's better, of course. She's learned to be mellower and easy going, I've learned to be open about how I feel and that I can speak my mind. These improvements and realizations kept on coming, and even after I put that ring on her finger and we got married, they're going to keep coming. We'll have our good days and bad days, and I know that as long as she's here with me, it doesn't matter what people say. I know there's a chance Nefera and their father will never wholeheartedly welcome me with open arms, but that's fine with me as long as Cleo is able to.

Ramses and I don't have the perfect relationship that would be thought to be normal between father and son-in-law, but it's a lot better than it was when Cleo first introduced us to each other; now it teters more on love-hate rather than there's-no-chance-in-hell-we're-going-to-work-out- in-the-same-room-together. He still kinda hates me and won't hesitate to stick in one of his little assbag comments here and there, but I feel that we now have a certain degree of respect to each other that is we make fun of each other, but know when to draw the line and accept we're family now. Nefera's still a bitch, but we're now at the level of siblings who can stand each other…for a while.

And I have my father to thank for all of it. He taught me that life doesn't always go the way you planned, but when the going gets tough, you brush off your shoulders, wipe your face, and you keep on trucking. Up to the day he died, him and my mom taught me so much about life and love and everything. I thank him for that, because had he not shown me this, I don't think I'd be where I am today. And I can only hope I can do the same thing with my own children.

Whenever I look at Isis and Antony, I will admit, I do sometimes feel like doubt. I feel like I'm not doing things right and question whether or not I'm being a good role model for them, but when they look at me with those big round, childlike eyes- Antony got blue eyes from Cleo while Isis's are green like mine- they let me know that, I may not be the perfect parent, but I'm doing a pretty damn good job at it.

I will always miss my father, and I will never stop loving him. Sometimes I find myself wondering how he would react if he could see me now: his own son, a grown man who was married to a wonderful woman and the father to two loving children.

I think that a lot. Sometimes I look above and wonder if he's watching, and if he's proud of me wherever he is in the clouds or the stars, or wherever people end up after they die. And every time, a little gush of wind goes by to let me know he'll always be there for me, teaching me and guiding me, even in death.

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_Playlist to this fic that also inspired it are: "You'll Be In My Heart" by Phil Collins, "Dance With My Father" by Luther Vandross, "If You Could See Me Now" by The Script, "The Living Years" by Mike and The Mechanics, "Little Wonders" by Rob Thomas, "Nobody Else But You" from The Goofy Movie and "We Are One" from The Lion King II._

_Happy Father's Day, everyone. _


End file.
